


Company

by ShastaFirecracker



Series: Choices [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Baked Goods, Casual Sex, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Multi, Older Woman/Younger Man, Original Character(s), Sex Positive, Sex Worker, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:20:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23177617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShastaFirecracker/pseuds/ShastaFirecracker
Summary: Geralt is looking forward to visiting an old flame at the next town. Jaskier figures he won't see Geralt for a couple of days, but Geralt and his lady-friend have other plans.[All works in this series can stand alone.]
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Choices [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620493
Comments: 53
Kudos: 619





	Company

**Author's Note:**

> Friend 👏of 👏sex 👏workers 👏Geralt
> 
> Well. I thought, so, they're friends with benefits. They aren't exclusive. The other people they see are probably also frequently casual flings. Therefore, Geralt's uncomplicated brain: _Want to sleep with old flame. Want to sleep with Jaskier. Why not both? Both is good._
> 
> It's as PWP as I write, though I've been told I can't write PWP because I put too many feels in it. XD

The north banks of the river Yaruga are lovely in late spring, awash with ginatia and myrtle in full bloom, the river's edges softened with young, pale green cattails. No one in Temeria fears the war drums starting to beat further south, because proud Cintra and its fierce Lioness stand between the south and Temeria. Calanthe would never let any hostile force get as far north as the Yaruga.

After a chain of countryside contracts that had barely brought in enough coin to keep them fed, Geralt had finally conceded to Jaskier's pleas to seek out civilization. Jaskier had hoped to go to Vizima, the capital, but Geralt had immediately steered them towards the Yaruga and the sprawling port towns along its banks that take advantage of its clear path to the open sea.

Bamborough is hardly a walled metropolis, but it is the largest town they've entered in weeks – large enough to offer an option of multiple inns, more than one of which have solidly-constructed wooden roofs rather than frame-and-thatch. Jaskier has never been there before and has no expectations, beyond excitement at the prospect of people who know what the word “fashion” means and the notion that he might be able to get a real Toussaint red instead of stein after stein of watered-down swill.

Geralt, on the other hand, is in some of the highest spirits Jaskier has ever seen. He won't tell Jaskier why.

“What's got your whistle all wet, then?” Jaskier demands, purposely being crude, but the turn of phrase nets him a clue: instead of dead silence, Geralt responds with a faint cough and a turn of the head away from Jaskier.

Oh.

“Well,” Jaskier says, trying not to be disappointed that he won't get to properly celebrate their first mattress in a fortnight. “Good for you.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, rolling his eyes.

“Hm?”

“It's been years,” Geralt says. “She might not still be here.”

“Two rooms?” Jaskier asks. “Probably haven't got the coin for it on hand, but there should be a decent crowd to squeeze for once. Break even by the end of the night.”

“One room,” Geralt says.

Jaskier understands this to mean that Geralt won't be in it. Won't be in the inn, probably.

“Fine,” says Jaskier.

Geralt glances at him sidelong. “You'd like her,” he says.

Jaskier blinks and squints, bemused. “I like most people,” he counters. “I'm very easy. You point it out a lot.”

Geralt huffs a laugh under his breath. “You are that,” he mutters.

“Why? Going to bring her to my performance on a date before the real entertainment?”

But Geralt is silent after that, a slight smile touching his mouth. He dismounts Roach outside town, wraps her lead around his fist, and walks next to Jaskier as they move between the thickening density of houses. It's mid-afternoon and everyone's out – working, hawking, hustling; chattering and whistling while they go about it all. Two children streak by, one chasing the other, both screaming laughter. Geralt gets several muttered “g'day”s and “witcher”s accompanied by tips of the hat or nods of the head, rather than a gob of spit just shy of his boots.

Jaskier's spirits rise with every person they pass. It's a nice little town, this. He can sense when a place will be amenable to his charms, and he thinks Bamborough is absolutely _ripe_ to be entertained. He's already planning out his set – no more than one slow ballad, but not pure raunch, either – these are the sorts who want a story. Clear-eyed and curious enough to have their attentions held by even his longest, most rambling dramatic epics. Oh, yes, tonight will be a time to shine.

Jaskier chooses the inn based on nothing but gut feeling. Good central placement in town, good sightlines, good vibe. Once the room is paid for (and precious little left in their purses afterwards) and Roach is stabled, Geralt makes his excuses and wanders off towards what Jaskier can only assume is the direction of the brothel. Jaskier tamps down his disappointment, hypes himself up on the prospect of a good crowd, and takes his lute out to ramble among the people in the town square, hawking his own show.

Any ill feelings he had earlier disappear over the course of the day. He was right about the people, right about the inn, and most importantly right about the money. When the sun sets he retreats to the inn common room to play an easy, light-hearted first song for the few people starting to trickle in, and by the end of that single number he has enough tips to set himself up with enough wine, fruit, and bread to keep himself fortified for the rest of the evening. People keep coming and coming, crowding the room. Jaskier launches into The Lioness of Cintra, and the crowd roars like lions themselves. He ends up on a table, belting out verses to the rafters, high as though drugged, _shining._

He doesn't know what time it is when he sees them – white hair loose, clean and brushed, and dark, sleek brown in coiled braids. She is laughing, her round cheeks flushed with mirth and probably wine, and with a strange clarity across the crowded room Jaskier sees that there are deep crow's feet by her eyes. She isn't a polished beauty, isn't wearing the revealing cleavage and slit skirts Jaskier would have expected of a working girl. She looks... homely, if anything.

And Geralt is smiling, listening to her laugh, one hand easy on his cup of ale and the other around her shoulder, leaning her against him. They're so _close._ Jaskier's mouth keeps moving in the shape of the song, but his mind trips over this unexpected pothole in the road and staggers drunkenly. Geralt leans his face close to hers, says something into her ear, and she laughs and says something back, and Jaskier would trade all the songs of Nazair to know what they're talking about.

Then she looks right at him, eyes catching for an instant. Geralt looks, too. Jaskier's hands stumble, one sour note. He forgets the words.

She belts it out at him, voice rich but not exactly in tune. “Dawn on the sea-swell, fire in the sky -”

He recovers. His voice is half drowned out by the crowd singing along anyway. He can pretend the jangly note was on purpose, even, at this point in the song – the ship of ghosts dying, a pyre after a long night of terror and adventure. It's one of his more embellished pieces – there's never been a spectral ship crewed by wraiths off the coast of Ard Skellig that he knows of – but he'd heard a lot of Skelliger accents around town today and decided to add it in, as it's a favorite in port towns. Bamborough is miles from the coast but it's still a port, living or dying by its river trade. There must have been an influx of Skelliger immigrants at some point.

She knows his songs, Jaskier thinks. She's not a sprightly youth or an otherworldly beauty. She looks... kind. Full of good humor. Geralt was right – Jaskier likes her, on sight alone. He lets go of any petty possessiveness he was still feeling, deep down, and instead honestly enjoys the sight of them together, talking and drinking and smiling. Geralt looks as happy as he ever does, and it makes Jaskier's heart swell to see it. _Good for you,_ he thinks, honestly this time.

He gets lost in the music and the crowds again, and stops staring at Geralt and his lady friend. He finishes the seafaring epic, launches into a ribald shanty that gets the people stomping and chanting with him. He winks at every person who catches his gaze, loses count of his glasses of wine, loses all sense of time.

Even high on the power of the show, instinct still perks up to ease him towards quitting time. It's something to do with the ratio of awake, engaged patrons to passed-out-drunk patrons. He says the next song will be his last, knowing it won't be, knowing he'll get one encore call at least. He accepts two and begs out of a third. It's well into the small hours of the morning when he bows out of the room to hoots and hollers, his purse heavy, his belly full, his head light as a feather.

He hauls himself up the stairs to the third floor, thinking only to stow his lute and new wealth before returning to find company. He'd seen a few likely prospects in the crowd earlier. After such a good night, a cold bed for one and a lonely hangover would tear the mood right out from under him.

But when he reaches his door, voices filter out to him. For a moment he assumes they must be from across the hall – but then it registers that the deep, short tone is unmistakably Geralt, and the voice responding is feminine.

Outrage sparks in his belly. One room, Geralt said! Jaskier knows the man fails to communicate properly at the best of times, but _one room_ means _Jaskier's_ room, godsdammit! It always has! Geralt's nostalgia-strumpet has to have a bed of her own somewhere, for fuck's sake!

Jaskier whips open the door, pout out in full force, prepared to rant, prepared to ruthlessly interrupt any compromising positions he might see. Except – Geralt is looking at him, entertainment clear on his scarred face, and so is his lady friend. They're both clothed, sitting at the small table, mugs and a mostly-demolished plate of sweet pastries between them. The woman beams.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says by way of greeting, lifting the mug an inch. “Thought you'd never get done.”

Jaskier opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

“Sung yourself voiceless?” the woman asks, grinning. “I could believe it.” Her accent is Skelliger, thick.

“Shut the door,” Geralt says.

Jaskier stares at them both for another moment, then turns and shuts the door and walks over to the chest at the side of the room to stow his money and lute. He takes a deep breath through flared nostrils, then rounds on the two intruders. “Hello,” he says, thinking he should get an award for how remarkably calm he's being. “It's lovely to meet you, I'm sure.” He makes this sound as much like _get the fuck out of my room_ as he possibly can.

Geralt tips his head back and sighs to the rafters. “Jaskier -” he starts.

But the woman interrupts him. Directed to Geralt, she admonishes, “You didn't think mentioning it to him _first_ would be the right order of business?”

Geralt looks down at her. “Didn't know if you'd be here,” he grumbles.

The woman rolls her eyes at him, fond but clearly a little annoyed, and stands. She holds out a hand to Jaskier, who takes it by habit. She doesn't shake it, just holds it, palm warm, fingers near Jaskier's wrist. “I'm Melande,” she says. He can see the Skelliger spelling by the soft, throaty _uh_ at the end.

“Jaskier,” he says, bemused.

“I know,” she says.

“Uh. Have we met?” Or the more likely option springs to his mind: “Seen me perform before?”

“No,” she says, “but I've heard your songs around and about. Catchy. My boy Toman will drive me right mad singing the fishmonger one, though.” She tuts.

She's still holding Jaskier's hand. He slips it away from her gently. “Boy?” he asks, a little too high. He glances at Geralt.

Geralt points at the bed, a clear order to sit. Jaskier glares at him for a moment, then retreats and does as ordered. Melande goes back to her chair, elbow on the table, looking at Geralt with an eyebrow quirked.

“I've known Mela for over twenty years,” Geralt says. “First in Larvik, in winter. She stared at me while I bought hot rolls until I gave her one. Ran into her again five years after, working in Kaer Trolde.”

“Whorin', you needn't put a rosy glow over it,” Melande says. “But I chose the work, and the work never disagreed with me. It seemed like a steal to get both coin and pleasure at once, and not have to risk my neck on a ship's crew, or weigh myself down forever with an unchanging husband. Twelve years I made that life work for me, I did.” She says it with wry pride, eyes twinkling. Jaskier looks at her hands again, warm and firm-gripped, and guesses at the shape of her under her dress, and swallows.

“And Bamborough?” Jaskier asks. “It's awfully far from Skellige.”

She sighs. “Aye, well. The charm that kept my womb empty finally failed on me. Once it got to where I couldn't ply my trade and I needed to eat for two, seemed the right time for a change. Caught a ship, followed some families I knew who were looking for new chances, too. Ended up here. Left a note behind for my favorite client should he ever seek me out again.” She casts a wink at Geralt.

“I was here last, what... seven years back?”

“Eight,” Melande says. “Toman was still crackin' his voice. Now he works for the local lord, has his eye on a lass in town.” She looks wistful. “Find myself sorry sometimes I never picked a man to settle with. Not because my life's been bereft, you know, but because it'd be nice to have the company. Not to mention, less and less fellows sees me as a viable interest.” She huffs.

“Lucky I know better,” Geralt says, teasing.

She grins. “Aye, who wants a virgin, anyway? Experience is always better.”

Jaskier does some vague math in his head. Mid- or late forties, perhaps. She looks younger. All the lines in her skin trace a history of frequent and unrestrained smiles. “It is truly a pleasure to meet you, Melande,” he says, leaning forward, elbows on knees. “Although I still think the wee hours of the morning is an odd time for a catch-up.”

“Oh, hardly,” Melande says. “Geralt, will you finally explain yourself to the poor man?”

“I invited Mela to our bed,” Geralt says. “Thought it might interest you.”

“If it doesn't, I take no offense,” Melande says. “I've already had one of the best nights in years. I'll leave you to it, though I have to say I'll be sorry to miss the view.” Her gaze lingers on Jaskier, following his lean form up to his chest, where his doublet is open and his chemise is showing a good bit of skin.

Jaskier's mouth sags open. “Wait,” he says, mind stuttering to a halt and reversing over what they just said. “Wait, you – Geralt could just go with -”

“I'm not inviting you to _us,_ ” Geralt says kindly, gesturing between himself and Melande.

Jaskier's stomach does a wild flip. He sits up straighter. “Oh,” he says, breathless. Oh, _she's_ invited. Geralt is staying. Jaskier can have Geralt all to himself, or -

“I've always known Geralt to have a varied palate,” Melande says, eyes shining. “Worked with a young man in Kaer Trolde. He hired us both one night.” She _hmms_ in fond remembrance. “Bloody good night, that.”

Or he can have Geralt _and_ an old flame. An experienced, mischievous, adventurous old flame. Who wants to... who wants to _watch Jaskier perform._

Jaskier can feel the moment his pupils blow wide and his whole opinion of this venture flips on its head. His heartrate spikes, he sucks in air. Despite however much wine he's had, heat wastes no time blooming low in his belly and stirring his interest.

Geralt's small smile widens to a grin, flashing teeth. “He's on board,” he tells Melande.

“Reading his mind, are you?” Melande says. She sits forward in her chair, leaning towards Jaskier. Her cleavage may be modest, but Jaskier can still see enough. “I want to hear him say it.”

Jaskier straightens his back, slides his hands down his doublet as though dusting off some invisible crumbs, then leans casually back on one hand on the bed, crossing his ankles out in front of him. It hides exactly nothing about the slight bulge in his trousers. He smiles at Melande. “I think that Geralt is a master tactician,” he says. “He has _very_ good ideas, with which I cannot find a single fault.”

“Silver tongue,” she says, smiling.

“In more ways than one,” he taunts, flickering his eyes towards Geralt.

She makes a low noise in her throat. “That I'd like to see.”

“Geralt may complain about my singing, but he loves my silver tongue – don't you?” Jaskier smirks at him.

“Hm,” Geralt says oh-so-helpfully. He drains what's left in his mug and rises from his chair, holding out a hand to Melande. When she stands next to him, Jaskier can see that she's quite a tall woman, though still a hand shorter than Geralt. Jaskier is sure her braided hair had been coiled all the way up when he spotted her earlier, but now the two thick braids are hanging down to her shoulder blades, frayed loose a little bit around her face in a dark halo. She has some weight to her, a rounded softness that Jaskier can already imagine melting against. It's true that he wouldn't have picked her out of the crowd on looks alone, and he feels a twinge about it – how many worthwhile people does he pass over when his gaze only seeks out traditional beauty?

Geralt tilts his head to kiss her, no hesitation, gentle but firm. Jaskier can see from the way she kisses back that she knows what she's doing. Her hands go to Geralt's hair and his waist, smoothing down white strands and holding his lips to hers, tugging his white linen shirt out from its loose tuck. Geralt smooths his hands down her waist to her hips, pulls back from her, turns her around in his arms so she's facing Jaskier. She smiles, her teeth very white against her red-rouged lips and caramel skin.

Jaskier takes the invitation without another hint. He stands and flits into her space, capturing her mouth so he can start proving how silver his tongue is. Oh, she _does_ know what she's doing, deepening the kiss at once, pulling him towards her and moving against him in _ways._ Mmh. He kisses her deeply, rocking gently against her, hands sliding up her waist and then over her shoulders to stroke soft circles against the skin at the top of her back, where the collar of her dress sits. His hands are between her back and her hair, and Geralt's fingers brush against Jaskier's, and at length Jaskier realizes that Geralt is taking down her braids and running his fingers through her luxuriously long hair. It's a brown so dark it's nearly black, and it falls in a sleek, heavy curtain to the small of her back.

Melande grins at Jaskier, leans back against Geralt's chest. She reaches up and back, catching the side of Geralt's face, and urges him closer. Geralt leans over her shoulder – and Jaskier follows the motion, meeting him in a clash of lips and tongue. Fractionally more urgent, now. A soft sound escapes Jaskier when Geralt's tongue fucks into his mouth, followed by a slightly louder gasp when Melande's clever fingers release his chemise from his trousers and has all the laces loose in a heartbeat.

Geralt pulls back, nuzzles against the back of Melande's head. His hands come around to her front, cupping her breasts. Jaskier starts pulling at the laces of her bodice. She hums a pleased sigh between them.

“Mela,” Geralt rumbles from behind her. “How do you want us?”

“Us, hm?” Jaskier can't help but needle. “Seems to me that I've had my surprise for the night already. Maybe I don't want orders.”

Melande laughs between them. Jaskier has her bodice open by now. Her breasts splay wantonly inside her slipping-away dress, showing the edges of dark areolas. “Jaskier,” she says, like she's tasting the name in her mouth, “perhaps we tell Geralt how we want _him?_ Since he's put us in this predicament.”

“I like that.” Jaskier kisses her again, hears Geralt make a soft noise behind her. “Geralt, be a darling and get on the bed. I think I want to get to know Mistress Melande better without your interference.”

Clearly grumpy about it, Geralt goes. He pulls his shirt off, tosses it aside. He goes for his breeches when he sits, but Melande makes a rough noise in her throat. “Not yet,” she says. “We'll get to you when we get to you.”

Geralt groans and tips his head back, but leaves his breeches laced tight. Jaskier approves. He wants Geralt aching to get out of them by the time he's allowed.

Jaskier lets Melande push his doublet off, shimmies out of his shirt and trousers, kissing her all the while. His smallclothes hide nothing. Melande's dress loses the fight against gravity, and she twitches her hips in a way that makes the fabric slink off her form. Jaskier walks her back a step towards the chair vacated by Geralt, pushes her gently towards it, and straddles her thighs when she sits.

“Oh,” she sighs, tipping her head back to let Jaskier nibble down her neck. “So, Jaskier. You and our white witcher, eh? Never thought I'd see the day he didn't travel alone.”

“Well,” Jaskier says against her collarbone, fingers toying at her nipples. “He'll say he didn't want me there, at first. But now he knows better, I think.”

She laughs. He likes her laugh – abrupt and honest. “He says a lot of things, doesn't he. Witchers don't feel. Witchers don't get involved in human affairs.” Jaskier leans up to see that she's grinning in Geralt's direction, and he's rolling his eyes back at her. “Freya bless him, but sometimes we know what's better for him, don't we?”

“Mm.” Jaskier slides off her legs and kneels in front of the chair. “I like to think he doesn't take my advice _nearly_ often enough.” He kneads the insides of her thighs, easing them wider, and kisses along the inside of her knee. Silvery stretch marks shine in the light of the wall sconces. He traces them with his tongue, all the way along the silk-soft skin to the crease of her hip. She lets out a breath and ruffles fingers into his hair, combing it back almost exactly the way Geralt does.

Jaskier puts his hands over the tops of her thighs, draws his thumbs through the dark curls around her lips, then eases them apart and dips his tongue into the folds, barely there, teasing her with heat and wet. She shudders, thighs tensing under his hands. “Silver tongue indeed,” she murmurs, and Jaskier wonders if she's watching Geralt. Wonders if Geralt is straining against his breeches yet, if he's touching himself through the fabric or if Melande's glare is keeping him in check. Jaskier strokes his tongue along skin so soft it feels like it could melt under his mouth, not focusing on Melande's clit, just on gathering the taste of her in his mouth, on getting her as wet as possible. He probes further down with his tongue, testing her entrance, finds that she's quite wet already all on her own. Jaskier gently closes his mouth around a fold here, a fold there, brushing her with his teeth, suckling, spreading her own slick upwards, upwards, moving towards the goal - 

The thighs under his hands are quivering; the hands in his hair tug harder. He makes a noise, _no,_ he loves this, he's focused – it's like composition, finding the perfect notes, the perfect cadences, exactly when to breathe and when to exhale. But the tugging returns, and he disengages with great reluctance, knowing he was near the verge of a crescendo.

He looks up. Melande is breathing roughly, her belly trembling with her restraint. “Golden tongue, maybe,” she says. “Freya's tits, bard, not yet, I haven't got the stamina I used to.”

He smirks at her, knowing his mouth and chin are obscenely wet. He's hard as iron and belatedly remembers he's still wearing his smallclothes, so he pushes them off without ceremony, leaving himself and Melande naked at the table while Geralt -

Jaskier looks over. Geralt is flushed a deep pink high in his pale cheeks, watching raptly. His hands are curled into fists by his sides, and his breeches have to be painful by now. “You know who has got stamina to spare,” he says suggestively.

“Hnn,” Melande moans in agreement. “I haven't seen you in ages, Geralt, _please.”_

Geralt is up and stripping out of the rest of his clothes in the blink of an eye, gusting a sigh of relief when his erection springs free. He kicks the trousers aside, flops back down to the bed, and holds out his hand to them.

Jaskier goes to him, Melande right behind him. Jaskier sinks to his knees by the bedside, while Melande climbs up next to Geralt, pressing her soft skin and curves to his hard, scarred body. She kisses hard and Geralt melts to her, hand curled in her long hair. They kiss like they're starving. Jaskier looks at the cock in front of him and agrees wholeheartedly with the sentiment.

He rubs the head of Geralt's cock over his chin, getting it wet with Melande's slick, then sinks his mouth over it, deep and smooth. Geralt tastes of salt, a hint of leather, the coppery high note of blood hot under his skin – but all in all very clean, making Jaskier certain that he'd bathed sometime today while Jaskier hawked. Sweet, wonderful man. Jaskier doesn't tease, doesn't spend time kissing Geralt's thighs or kitten-licking at his slit – he holds Geralt's hips down against the bed and _presses,_ draws the head against his palate, swallows. Above him, Geralt jerks and groans, and Melande's hand joins Jaskier's, fingers tangling, holding the witcher down. Jaskier doesn't think their combined strength could really do anything to stop the man, but Geralt obeys the unspoken order nonetheless.

Jaskier sucks Geralt ruthlessly, using every technique he knows. He can tell Geralt is careening towards that cliff by the way the man's legs tremble at Jaskier's sides, by the quality of his breathing. When he thinks Geralt is on the verge, he pulls off, sucking hard, and licks a few more times, mouths his way down the underside of Geralt's length towards his white curls.

_“Jaskier,”_ Geralt complains, bucking his hips.

“Hmm?” Jaskier hums blithely, looking with wide, innocent blue eyes up to the partners above him. Melande is biting her lower lip with amused delight; Geralt looks pained.

“Beautiful,” Melande murmurs, stroking Geralt's hair back from his sweat-speckled brow.

“Mela,” Jaskier says conversationally, adopting Geralt's nickname for her. “Do you want to see Geralt's very, _very_ favorite thing for me to do with my tongue?”

“Dear bard, I would love nothing more,” she says, idly tracing scars on Geralt's chest.

Jaskier stands, gesturing the other two further up the bed. Melande sprawls herself against the pillows and Geralt turns to crawl over her, kissing his way up her body. Jaskier pushes Geralt's knees apart, kneels between them. Melande groans at the sight, so Jaskier assumes she knows where this is going.

“Oh, my wolf,” she says, catching Geralt's chin and pulling him up to kiss her properly. “How many think you must be rough, before they know you? Even Arnault assumed you would hurt him, before you did the same thing for him.”

Geralt kisses her chin, sucks a faint mark onto her neck. “I live with enough pain,” he says. “You know that.”

“So does your songbird, it seems.” Melande meets Jaskier's eyes, hers half-hooded, hazy with memory and pleasure. “You have no idea how glad it makes me to know that you're cared for.”

“Mela,” Geralt murmurs into her collarbone. “I should have come to see you more often.”

She shakes her head against the pillow. “That isn't what we are,” she says. “I need my freedom, but you didn't choose an unattached life like I did. You need care and keeping, m'allaidh.”

“Then I'm glad for you,” Geralt tells her. “And I'm glad for Jaskier, who _might_ have forgotten what he's doing.” He casts a mild glare over his shoulder at Jaskier, who is caught out, startled, having melted into listening to their soft, lovely voices.

“You two are a song,” Jaskier declares, settling behind Geralt and palming his firm cheeks. “But veering into the wrong genre, I think.” Melande laughs. He asks, “Kind Mistress Melande of the fair isles of Skellige, would you like to watch me fuck this witcher silly?”

She giggles, squirming under Geralt as he swipes rough thumbs over her nipples. “Master Jaskier, what a wonderful way with words you have.”

Jaskier spreads Geralt's arse and licks him from balls to entrance, drawing a pair of groans from over his head. He takes his time, working the furl of muscle with the flat of his tongue, then the point; pulling Geralt's cock down to where he can kiss it, mouthing over his tight sack, then going back to start over. After a few minutes, he pushes a spit-slick finger in to the first knuckle, pulls at Geralt's rim to get his tongue further in. Above him, he's aware of wordless voices, movement, trembling and shifting, and his only regret about where he is is that he can't watch them. Jaskier pushes his finger further in, sucks at the skin around it, ghosts it with teeth, and Geralt rumbles a loud groan.

“Jaskier,” says Melande's rich, rough voice. “Have you let him spill on your face before?”

Jaskier moans an affirmative and Geralt curses under his breath, and before Jaskier knows it, Geralt has flipped around under him and his cock is at Jaskier's lips, being stroked purposefully by a dark hand with slender, calloused fingers - 

Jaskier's instinct is to get his mouth over Geralt before he comes, to catch the release and swallow it, but Mela's request filters through his foggy brain and he looks up at her, at both of them, poised and waiting. He parts his lips, rubs his bottom lip under the head of Geralt's cock, and then has to blink quickly to protect his eyes when Geralt groans, bows up, lets go.

_“Fuck,”_ he hears Mela rough out, voice low. Jaskier's cock throbs at the knowledge that she likes what she sees. Gods, if he rubbed himself against the mattress just right, he could come in a heartbeat from this. But he opens his eyes, wipes off a streak that strayed too close to his lashes, licks it off his finger. Geralt's head is laid back on Mela's shoulder, expression glazed while he pants, and she's still fondling him gently, not quite letting him go soft.

“You're not done, lovely,” Melande says into Geralt's ear, brushing his hair back. “But take your time.”

Jaskier pushes off the bed to his feet, stumbling a little. Geralt makes a noise in the back of his throat, one hand flopping out to the side as if to reach for Jaskier. Jaskier laughs and swats at his shin. “Hush, I'm coming back.” Melande shifts under Geralt, wriggles to the side until she can kiss him. The sound of their lazy making out spurs Jaskier to be quick about dodging across the room to his pack and rummaging for supplies.

He returns wiping his face with a cloth, and Melande glances up and clucks her tongue in disappointment. “That was a good look,” she chides.

“Sorry,” Jaskier says, but isn't. He tosses the cloth to the bedside table and puts the bottle of oil next to it before climbing next to Geralt, sandwiching the witcher between partners. He leans over Geralt's face, close enough to gust breath against the witcher's lips, then gives an impish grin and darts over to Melande instead. She laughs against his mouth as they kiss above Geralt's face. He makes a noise like he can't decide whether to complain or enjoy the view.

Melande sucks Jaskier's lower lip between her teeth and nips before drawing back. “In a right and just world I'd have you both in me,” she says dreamily. “Together, I mean – did that a few times, back in my day.”

“Still in your day,” Geralt tells her.

She grins. “Not up to quite that much anymore, love,” she says. “But one after t'other, I wouldn't say no to.”

“Ah, well, Geralt's such a monster,” Jaskier says sagely. “Might need a step on the way to get ready.”

Melande giggles. “Not a wee thing yourself, bard.”

Jaskier heaves himself over Geralt to climb onto Melande, grinning. “Who's got the silver tongue around here?”

She wraps her hand around his cock. Her fingers are still wet with spit and probably Geralt's precome. “I still have my monthlies,” she murmurs. “Delightful as I find you, I'd rather not pop out any singing babes, yeah?” She kisses him lightly, and her tone is all playful teasing, but he can read the echo of real concern behind her words.

Jaskier tries to respond, but her fingers are damnably clever. He shudders, heat clawing up his spine, all too aware of how little he's been touched so far. “Darling, I couldn't agree more,” he says breathlessly. He looks over at Geralt. “Shall I just keep you warm until Geralt's up to taking over?”

Melande smiles, and Geralt grabs the vial of oil and gets his fingers slick, starts lazily prepping himself, watching the other two with hooded eyes.

Jaskier pulls both of Mela's hands to his shoulders and props himself on one elbow, kisses her deep and slow while he guides himself into her. She tips her head back, throat long and tight, moving with her swallows and gasps. She doesn't perform her noises like a lot of women Jaskier has known in the sex trade. Perhaps she used to, or perhaps she's never been overly performative for Geralt because she knows that with him, she'll get hers whether she whines sweetly for it or not. Geralt is nothing if not a thorough lover, and Jaskier considers himself the same. An unsatisfied partner is a failure of an evening, in Jaskier's opinion.

Mela is hot and tight and delightful, and Jaskier kisses her neck and rocks into her in shallow little thrusts that leave her squirming, demanding more. Just like Geralt, Jaskier thinks with a grin against her throat – tease until he begs; he acts like he doesn't want to beg but he also always lets Jaskier get away with this until the _please_ s and the _more_ s start tumbling from his mouth -

Except Melande's legs tighten around him suddenly, and she pushes up with her hips and a deceptively strong arm, and Jaskier yelps a little bit when she rolls him over and plants herself firmly on top. Her long hair sweeps behind her, brushing the tops of his thighs, and she crashes herself over him like a wave against a cliff. It rips an embarrassingly overwhelmed yelp from him.

“Too sweet for me, songbird,” she tells him with a grin, thighs tensing with hidden strength as she rides him. “Should have asked what I chose for my second career.”

“Wha-?” Jaskier gasps, clutching on for dear life.

“Baker,” she groans, tilting her hips and grinding down. “Reckon I could snap you in half in a fair fight.”

Jaskier bites his lip, curls his toes. “Don't say that,” he begs, “I'm supposed to last.”

She shakes her head, laughing. “Don't worry,” she says breathlessly, “I only came up here for the view.” She looks down at Geralt and Jaskier follows her gaze. He's hard again, leaking, one hand around his base, the other out of sight between his legs from Jaskier's angle.

“Geralt, she's trying to kill me,” Jaskier complains, breaking down into another whimper as Mela squeezes him. “You're supposed to protect me from this kind of thing.”

Geralt snorts. He reaches for the cloth on the side table and wipes oil off his fingers. “Fine,” he says. “I'll take the contract.”

Melande laughs heartily, and the vibrations around Jaskier's cock are almost enough to do him in. He scrambles to sit up and Melande lifts herself smoothly off of him. They all spend a moment rearranging limbs. Melande pulls her hair out of the way when she sits on it; Jaskier stumbles off the bed for a moment to get behind Geralt (while squeezing his balls and thinking about monster guts to try and keep himself in check). Geralt kisses Melande's breast, her collarbone, her shoulder, and she huffs at him, reaching down to guide him into place. Jaskier slots neatly behind him, picks up the oil.

“Wanna see what this looks like on you,” Melande says, stroking the side of Geralt's face. “Something new for me, after all this time.”

Jaskier can't see Geralt's face but he can envision his expression – quietly pleased, dark with wanting. Jaskier takes a shaky breath, slicks his cock, and doesn't bother to check Geralt's handiwork. He lines up and sinks in, tilting his hips just _so,_ experience guiding his strokes.

Melande is enraptured by watching Geralt's face. After a couple of thrusts from Jaskier, Geralt follows the motion through into Mela, and she sucks in a loud breath, rising into a moan. “Oh, fuckin' -” she gasps, hitching her legs wider and pulling Geralt closer. _“Please,_ Freya help me, _oh -”_

Jaskier controls the pace at first, pushing Geralt into Melande and tugging him back by the hips. The power is heady, because every time he thrusts he draws double the usual voices raised in pleasure, and it makes Jaskier feel like he's fucking them both. He leans over Geralt's back, draws his fingers through white hair and pulls his head up until Jaskier can catch a sideways kiss. Melande kisses Geralt's jaw, Jaskier's hand finds her hair; faces turn, Jaskier's mouth on Mela's for a moment, Mela's on Geralt's, hot stuttered breath shared among the three of them, a shallow grind, buried deep under each others' skins. Jaskier forgets everything in the world but this glowing entanglement of spirits, needing and wanting blurring all together into _having,_ into _now._

At some point Jaskier finds himself at Geralt's shoulders again, mouthing along a set of three parallel scars – he fits his fingers over them, digs his short nails in, scratches them red again. Geralt cries out. Jaskier imagines _all_ the marks as his, as belonging to him and Melande and anyone else who's ever treated Geralt _right_ in this godsforsaken world that hates witchers as much as it needs them. As if reading his mind, Melande's hand appears over Geralt's shoulder, open in invitation. Jaskier tangles his fingers with hers, holds tight. He shifts his hips back and stops thrusting.

“Chase us,” Jaskier croons into Geralt's ear.

With a rough groan, Geralt takes over, caught between pleasures. Into Mela, back onto Jaskier, never entirely enough of both, but gods _above_ – Melande's hand tightens on Jaskier's and her gasped moans get louder, begging without words, while Jaskier can only press his face into Geralt's sweat-hot back and ride out the impossible pleasure of it.

Jaskier gets a hand between Geralt and Mela and blindly seeks out the place where they're joined. He raises his thumb from there, slipping through her soaking wetness, and rubs a firm circle.

She breaks with a hoarse shout, hips driving into the feeling, and it bumps Geralt back onto Jaskier _hard,_ and that's it for Jaskier as well. He burns like he's seen wraiths do when they die, crackling emerald fire along their edges, catching the wind as they burst into light. Between them Geralt keeps chasing, losing his rhythm, falling apart at the seams until at last he lets out a harsh sigh and stills, bearing down hard around Jaskier, muscles in his back twitching in minute shivers.

Jaskier breathes. _In_ – Melande's fingers slip away from his, touch Geralt's face. _Out_ – Jaskier draws his fingers through Geralt's hair, petting down to his shoulder blades. _In_ and Jaskier remembers his own name; _out_ and he remembers the name of the town they're in. Reality gradually pieces itself back together in his blissed-out mind. He breathes, slips out gently, kisses the scratches he left over Geralt's scars. He breathes, and finds himself drawn down by Geralt and Melande both finally moving underneath him, giving him room to collapse.

Geralt ends up between Jaskier and Melande, still mostly on his front. Jaskier wraps over his back, chin on Geralt's shoulder, doing his best imitation of a blanket. Melande curls around his other side, putting all their faces close together. She throws a leg over Geralt's, onto Jaskier's calf, catching and curling her toes against him.

“Mm, _mmaster_ tacktishun,” Jaskier mumbles, slurred.

Geralt chuckles. The vibrations against Jaskier's chest are lovely. “Knew you'd like Mela.”

_“Love_ Mela,” Jaskier says emphatically.

“Ach, never believe anything a man says with a full stomach or empty balls,” Melande teases, and Jaskier snorts.

Geralt hmms. “My bard is prone to hyperbole.”

_“Never,”_ Jaskier retorts, nuzzling into Geralt's neck, breathing in the sweat-and-sweets smell of him. “Mm, honey. 'nd... cinnamon. When did you have honey and cinnamon? Did you leave me any?”

“No,” says Geralt.

_“Yes,”_ Melande overrules, smacking Geralt lightly on the shoulder. “I brought plenty, and there's more where they came from.”

Jaskier refocuses more clearly, opens his eyes to look at her. “Baker,” he remembers, and then remembers the plate on the table, which still had a few pieces of pastry intact on it when he saw it earlier.

She smiles at him, eyes crinkling.

“Can I marry you? I'd like to marry you, if you're on the market.” Jaskier gives her his best big, dewy doe eyes.

She laughs and reaches past Geralt's neck to run her fingers into his hair. “Alas, I'm not,” she says. “But you know where you can buy my wares when you want 'em.” She winks.

“Good thing I made a killing tonight,” Jaskier mumbles, eyelids sliding down again. He yawns.

There follows a long silence during which Jaskier isn't entirely sure when he drifts into a doze. He seems aware of warm limbs and mirrored breathing, candlelight daubing orange into the dark behind his eyelids. And yet when Geralt shifts under him, Jaskier startles awake and can't begin to say how much time has passed. Perhaps minutes, maybe as much as an hour.

He must have drifted far enough away to miss something, because he catches Geralt whisper, “If I make up an average morning's take to you, could you stay?”

Jaskier pries his eyes open, blinking blearily against Geralt's hair. He can't see their faces.

“I'm not in the business of selling my company anymore,” Melande whispers.

“I didn't mean it like...”

A small, sweet sound of sheets disturbed, skin touching skin. A kiss.

“I know, I know,” Melande breathes. “Freya help me, I wish I could spend a month in this bed with you, m'allaidh geal. But this job's as much about reputation as the last. Missing a day's deliveries would cost me a lot more than the bread's worth.”

“I understand,” Geralt murmurs.

“Tell your bard...”

“He's awake,” Geralt interrupts.

Jaskier yawns deep, wedges himself up onto an elbow to see over Geralt's shoulder. “Leaving?” he croaks.

She smiles and sits up to meet him. “Bread won't bake itself,” she says, then cups his face between her hands and kisses him deeply. He licks into her mouth, enjoying the slow, sleepy heat. Then Geralt jostles them by turning over onto his back and Jaskier pulls back with great reluctance.

“Let me walk you, Mela,” Geralt says.

“Psh, it's only a few streets over,” she says, but Jaskier reads more in her tired eyes and the pinched set of her mouth. She can fend for herself, sure. But after a lifetime of doing so, doesn't she deserve the peace of one night with her guard down?

So Jaskier says, “Please let him, he'll toss and turn all night with worry and be a _terrible_ bedmate.”

For a second, Mela gives him a look like she knows what he's really saying – _sometimes it's all right to take the hand that's offered_ – but then it shifts into a coy grin and she says, “Well, I oughtn't get between you and your beauty rest, silver-tongue.”

Geralt pushes himself upright, leans over to give Melande a kiss. “Give me a moment to get dressed,” he says.

“Damn uptight public decency laws,” Jaskier drawls, thoroughly enjoying the view while Mela and Geralt both slip off the side of the bed and go to retrieve their clothes. When Geralt bends over, a brief shine of candlelight against the inside of his thigh reminds Jaskier that he'll be walking the nighttime streets with Jaskier's spend still wet inside him. Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek.

Melande shrugs her shoulders into her dress and starts fiddling with the laces of the bodice. Jaskier spends a whole entranced thirty seconds watching the light shining in her waterfall of hair before he blinks, a thought occurring to him. “Mela, come here,” he says, sitting up and turning to the side on the bed.

“Hm?”

“Sit,” he says, patting the mattress in front of him.

She furrows her brow at him but does so, perching on the side of the bed while she keeps working on her bodice. He scoots closer, draws her hair back and runs his fingers through it to check for tangles.

“I can't do all that beautiful coiling you had earlier,” he tells her, “but I'm sure you want this out of the way. I couldn't stand for it to get accidentally baked into a loaf.” He nimbly separates it into three bunches and starts braiding.

She gives a surprised laugh. An honest moment of being taken aback by a kindness. He preens internally – few things make Jaskier feel better than pleasing someone hard to please.

“Now if only Geralt would let me at his mane,” Jaskier says conversationally. “With some flowers, I'm thinking – maybe a couple of ribbons -”

“Do you value that tongue of yours?” Geralt grumbles, pulling on his boots. He brings Melande's slippers over to her.

Jaskier scoffs at him. “Hair tie,” he demands, holding out a hand.

Geralt sighs and goes looking for one. He comes back with one of his own, a thin strip of leather. Jaskier secures the end of the braid while Melande pulls on her shoes. When she sits back up, Jaskier leans against her back, noses beneath her ear and wraps his arms around her waist.

“I could keep you here,” he sighs.

He can hear the grin in her voice when she says, “Snap you in _half,_ bard.” She lays her arms along his and she's not wrong, he can feel the corded muscle there from lifting flour, kneading dough.

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighs.

Jaskier turns her face to his and gives her one last long kiss. “It's been my pleasure to meet you, Melande,” he says against her lips.

“Freya willing, we'll meet again yet,” she murmurs back, smiling. Then she untangles herself from his hold and stands. Geralt puts his arm around her waist.

“Come back quick,” Jaskier tells them as they head out the door, “the bed'll get cold!” Geralt rolls his eyes in Jaskier's direction one last time and then they're gone.

Jaskier flops back, wriggles under the covers into the middle of the bed, clinging to the fading heat of three bodies. He relaxes, lying there, body and mind sinking rapidly back towards sleep, but he spends what alertness he has left thinking.

He's never considered some of the odder side effects of Geralt's long life and aimless, winding Path. The romantic in him – not to mention the mortal – keenly feels the pain (and potential masterpiece) that must come from outliving all your loved ones. (Except for sorceresses, apparently.) But what about people Geralt doesn't necessarily love, just people he... knows? He has an uncannily perfect memory for faces. How must it feel, to pass through a town again after five, ten, twenty years, and talk to the same fisherman or innkeep, except they're withering like plucked flowers while Geralt just plods along, never changing? Are there people out there who meet Geralt in passing and then come to find out that he had known their parents, or their grandparents? Do mothers tell their little children tales of the time a beast or specter tormented their town, years and years ago, in their grandfather's father's day – and then when Geralt passes through, silently checks the notice board, buys a little meat and ale and then moves on – does anyone _remember?_ Does anyone _realize?_

Jaskier turns to Melande in his mind. It makes so much sense, he realizes, for Geralt to repeatedly favor a hired woman who isn't afraid of him, who already knows what to expect from him. He wonders if there have been others through the decades, people Geralt returns to because he craves some little fragment of continuity, of being _known._

And it also makes too much sense for Geralt to feel that connection with women and men who sell the use of their bodies and trained skills, and who get only derision and scorn for it. People who are as needed as they are hated, who fulfill a deeply basic human need – to be taken care of – that is resented by an astonishing number of the very people who partake of the offered service.

Jaskier lies there feeling increasingly maudlin until booted footsteps approach outside and the door creaks open. Jaskier cracks an eye open to reassure himself that it's Geralt and not some intruder. It is. Geralt sits on the edge of the bed with a sigh, reaching down to tug off his boots.

“Safe?” Jaskier murmurs.

“Mm.”

“Come back,” Jaskier says with a groan, stretching. “It's chilly.”

Geralt sighs. Trousers and shirt back off – he hadn't bothered with underthings. He waves his hand at the nearly-guttered-out candle and it winks into black. As soon as Geralt gets in the bed, Jaskier is all over him like some sort of heat-seeking limpet. Geralt makes a few grumbled noises of complaint, but once they've gotten themselves arranged adequately, he doesn't push Jaskier away.

With a long exhale, Jaskier lets go of his muddled, racing thoughts and slips into true, deep sleep.

-

Geralt lets them sleep until the sun is high in the window, an unusual luxury. And after a late morning's ablutions, he tugs Jaskier back to the bed, a gentle demand that Jaskier finds impossible to refuse. Jaskier has Geralt again by the light of the near-noon sun, moving lazily, little kissing and no talk, just breathing against warm skin and watching the sun catch in Geralt's hair, turning it into molten gold.

Afterwards, Jaskier sleepily rubs Geralt's release against his taut stomach, and says, “The care and keeping of witchers, volume one...”

Geralt huffs with amusement and smacks Jaskier's hand. “Go back to sleep if you like. Checked the notices yesterday, looks like a fleder or something in the sewers. I need to go talk to people.”

“Mm, good. I mean, not good, disgusting. Death, vile, ugh. Sewage. Just the worst.”

“You need a nap,” Geralt tells him, and Jaskier snickers and promptly falls back asleep.

When he wakes again, he's alone in the room. He sits up, groaning and rubbing grit from his eyes. The bed is a thrice-rumpled mess, dotted with stains he hopes the innkeeper doesn't notice until they're long gone from the town. It's after noon and Jaskier is _starving._

He makes himself presentable and heads downstairs to negotiate the cost of lunch and of keeping the room for another couple of days. It considerably lightens his newly-filled purse, but Jaskier's mood is too high to care. Besides, the innkeep practically begs him to perform again tonight, because all the folk who come and stay for the singing have to wet their whistles with something, don't they?

After eating he decides to have a stroll around town, see if he can find another good venue. He'll play in the inn again tonight, but performing in the same spot every day can have an effect of diminishing returns. Roach is in the stable, so Geralt is probably already slogging about underground in mud and shit – Jaskier grimaces and makes a mental note to order a bath at the inn as soon as he gets a chance.

It's a beautiful day. Jaskier finds himself wandering more, thinking less. He reaches the edge of a market square and pauses to bask in the sun, listening to the chattering hum of humanity, clinking coins and the occasional strike of a hammer, footsteps and laughter. He's near a girl with a little wagon full of cut flowers for sale, so he breathes in deeply of the mix of verbena, hyacinth, paperwhites, and ginatia. He moves on and the smells change to include the mouthwatering aroma of nearby food stalls – cooking meat, caramelizing onion, woodsmoke, bread.

_Bread._ Jaskier suddenly stops and looks around intently. Only a few streets away from the inn, she'd said. It could be here. He wanders with a bit more purpose, following his nose and imagining himself as Geralt on one of his tracking expeditions, which makes him grin. He's still grinning when he spots a large double door propped open with kegs, letting fresh air into a steamy-looking kitchen with a veritable fortress of clay-and-stone ovens along the back wall. Out front, a sturdy little wooden stall is festooned with heaped stacks and large baskets of bread, all shapes and sizes. A young man with caramel skin and a dark, wispy beard is hawking it.

Jaskier wanders over. “Hullo,” he says, and makes just enough of a show of checking his coin purse to be sure that the young man has seen it. “What have you got that's sweet?”

He's eager to please, now that he's seen the money. “Raisins in these buns 'ere,” he says, gesturing, “and these are fig biscuits if you'd rather something with a bit a' tooth to it.”

“Anything cinnamonny?” Jaskier asks casually. “With honey, maybe?”

The young man's grin splits wide. “Ah, you've had some of mum's specialty and you're craving more, aren't ye?” he says.

Jaskier very much hopes that any visible pinkness in his cheeks can be chalked up to the bright sun.

“Ought to have another batch comin' soon,” the man – Toman, Jaskier assumes – says. “Crown for a half dozen, and you can wait for 'em hot if you like. Just holler that they're paid for.”

Jaskier flips the coin over, not saying a word about the extravagant price (it's an expensive spice, after all) and sidles up to the kitchen door.

There are two women working inside, facing away from him. The woman nearest the door has her hair in one long, dark braid, tied off with leather. Jaskier leans in the doorway and gives her a moment.

“Ulve, get the pastries before they catch, would you?” Melande calls across the kitchen, slapping a final dough-ball into a loaf shape before slashing it with a knife with movements fast enough to rival Geralt. The other woman calls back an aye, and Melande huffs out a deep breath, brushing her floury hands off on her apron. She turns, catches sight of Jaskier, and nearly jumps out of her skin.

_“Gods_ blight ye, you – _crazy_ man,” she says, catching her breath. “What are you -?”

Jaskier peers past her at the tray Ulve is taking out of an oven. “Ooh, I believe six of those absolute beauties are mine,” he says.

“What?” Melande looks around. “Oh. Oh!” She looks back to him and breaks into a smile, a laugh. “Well, I didn't expect you so soon, but I can't say I'm sorry. How's...?” Her brows raise.

“In town a bit longer,” he says. “Contract. Plus, how could I deprive a place this lovely of my own charms so soon after arriving?”

She laughs while she fetches a spare cloth to bundle hot pastries into. She presses the package into Jaskier's hands. “Well,” she says, “I suppose it's possible I'll be back. I know I can't have heard all of your... songs.”

“I have _so_ many,” he says, picking up a pastry and taking a bite. He never got to try any of the ones the night before, so he isn't expecting the sheer nirvana that hits him when the first scalding bite melts on his tongue in honey-and-spice bliss. His knees go weak and he looks at Melande with the biggest, dewiest doe eyes he's ever made. “Oh, _please_ marry me,” he says, mouth full.

She guffaws and shoos him towards the door. “Get on, now, some of us have respectable livelihoods to uphold,” she says, casting him the slyest little wink when no one's looking.

“How dare you slander the noble profession of bard!” he calls cheerfully over his shoulder as he leaves, finishing the first pastry in another two bites and sucking honey off his thumb. _Perhaps the only profession that could compete for the spot of oldest,_ he thinks to himself. Which came first, bartering for the comfort of the body, or the comfort of the mind? The selling of experience, or the selling of stories? Impossible to say.

He strolls away along sunny streets, humming to himself and looking forward to the evening's performance.

-

**Author's Note:**

> Melande is aromantic and sort of South Asian-coded in appearance. But the accent is of course that ridiculous thick Scottish brogue from Wild Hunt! Also please forgive my probably terrible google-translated Scots Gaelic spattered in there, it's supposed to be 'wolf' and 'white wolf' because, you know, we're predictable in this fandom lol


End file.
